A Strange Sort of Home
by siriously mai pane black
Summary: Bruce Wayne and Severus Snape meet in a bar and things take a turn for the intimate. Batman/Harry Potter crossover.


Two figures sat side by side at the bar; it was nearing the end of a busy night, and they were virtually the only two left. Although both were visibly the worse for drink, they remained statue-still and stoic, sitting stiffly over their identical drinks.

A jukebox running in the background had been playing the same kind of tunes for long enough that the repetitive beats had become something like a silence in itself, fading into the nothingness as far as both of them were concerned. It was a long time before either of them spoke to break the pseudo-silence; one of them finally cleared his throat and murmured into the darkness, his voice low and gravelly, "Want me to buy the next round?"

"No," came the terse reply from the other man. His voice was of higher-pitch, with more bitterness invading his tone, whether he had intended such or not. "I would rather you did not."

"Fair enough," the first man replied, drawing his cloak tighter around his muscled body. He silently motioned to the tired barman and lifted his glass, nodding his head slightly. Whether the bartender had thought providing the strange, shadowed man with more alcohol was advisable or not, he refilled the glass silently and accepted the payment without a word. He had come to the conclusion long ago that it would be inadvisable to start a fight with another man.

For a long time, the only sounds in the room were the rattling jukebox, the footsteps of the barman going about his business as quietly as he could, and the occasional _chink_ of a glass hitting the bar. Finally, this was broken by one of the two men offering, in a weary sort of tone, "Oh, if you insist."

Two glasses raised in unison as the two men motioned for a refill, but only one of them passed over any payment. There was another moment of pseudo-silence before the man with the coins grumbled, "You might have said thank you."

"You need not have offered a drink," the bitter man replied, scoffing softly as he rested his glass on the bartop again, "if you expected thanks if I accepted."

"I was taught it was polite to give thanks regardless," the first man replied, a hint of snottiness in his voice now. "I take it some of us were raised without manners."

It was perhaps a sign of the toll the alcohol had taken on his body that the second man gave no response to this, just a soft snort, and a ripple in the darkness as he drew his own cloak closer around his body. Unlike the other man, who was exceedingly well-built and muscular, he was quite skinny, pale and greasy. Aside from these obvious physical differences, they were quite similar in many respects; both were clad in dark colours, with long cloaks drawn tightly around their respective frames, hunched over their drinks as though afraid of anyone coming too close to them.

Perhaps the first man was feeling lonely in his own way, or perhaps just stubbornly persistant, for the conversation did not end there. "Your woman thrown you out, has she?" He asked in a faux-conversational way, glancing over his shoulder at the other man, raising an eyebrow at his hunched figure.

"I do not _do_ small-talk," came the snappish reply, soon followed by a gulp of whatever liquid was before him, and the soft sound of the glass returning to the bartop. "If you have a point, please sir, make it quickly."

"Manners, again," the first man replied mildly. Whatever his meaning before, he now seemed intent on pursuing conversation with the second man.

"Do you have nothing better to do with your evenings," the second man carefully asked, his eyes narrowing in distaste as he considered his barside companion, "than to convince others to join you in meaningless conversation, just so that you may hear the sound of your own voice?"

The other man's eyes narrowed in turn, and he unfurled his cloak, rising to his feet. "I have a great _many_ better things to do with my evenings," he corrected, quite stiffly. "I felt, however, that you could have used some pleasant conversation."

Rising to his feet slowly, so that he was nose-to-nose with the first man, the second man took some time about formulating his response to this. Eventually, he softly murmured, "Clearly, you were mistaken."

"What's your name?" The question burst out quickly, as though in response to some deep-seated curiosity that must be spoken immediately. A brief pause followed, from both parties, before he continued, a little more gruffly, holding out one hand in a gesture of friendship and fellowship to his companion, "Bruce Wayne."

The other man raised an eyebrow at this, hiding away his hands within his cloak and stepping back. He eventually dignified this with a two word response, "Severus Snape."

Wayne considered Snape for some time before responding in any fashion; the backing off was noted, and he withdraw his own hand, drawing his cloak more closely around his body again. "I would ask your mother, Mister Snape, where she feels she went wrong raising a child with so little knowledge of etiquette."

There are a number of ways that one might respond to this; many of them begin with a snide remark about how well etiquette applies when two strangers meet in such a place as a bar, or to cast aspersions on the manner in which the other party was raised. Perhaps as a result of some unknown trigger that Wayne had unwittingly set-off, or as a result of the alcohol that had been flowing quite freely that evening - or as a combination of both - Snape leapt for neither of these, but instead his hand struck out, connecting with the other man's jaw solidly.

A moment of virtual silence passed between them as Wayne raised one hand to his jaw almost thoughtfully; it was as though the jukebox had noticed the tense moment, for the music now came to a stop as the two men considered one another. After what seemed like several minutes, at least, of the two just watching one another, Wayne raised his hand and struck Snape in return, the back of his hand striking his jaw loudly and firmly.

It was uncertain exactly what had happened after that, who had asked whom to step outside, or whether the bartender had made that decision for them. For whatever reason, the two stumbled outside, neither apparently quite sure of what was about to happen. Both were, against their better judgment, much more driven by the alcohol than by common sense, and it was difficult enough for them to move in a straight line, much less anything more.

When Wayne, the larger of the two by a considerable margin, lifted Snape off his feet and pushed him against a wall, the latter closed his eyes and braced himself for impact. Though not quite sure just what to expect, he had certainly surmised that it could not be anything good.

The next sensation he felt was of warm, moist lips pressed against his, the feeling that of a man looking not for comfort or an end to loneliness, but of lust. It was a feeling that Severus Snape had rarely felt so intimately - very few people had considered him worth lusting for.

It may have been this, or the other man's forceful way of taking control, but he submitted. The next thing he was aware of, they were no longer pressed together against a wall, bathing in the gentle light of the moon, but somewhere strange, collapsed together amidst crimson silk bedsheets and aware of little but each others' bodies.

Strange though it may be, it felt like an unusual sort of home.


End file.
